Love, Hollow Points, and the Big Easy
by Sisyphean Effort
Summary: Mello is busy cutting a bloody path through the criminal underworld, and Matt is hot on his trail. What happens when Matt finally catches up to him? Well. . . lots of guns, sex, and violence-that's what! All with a little Southern flavor . . . Mello/Matt. Mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello, my lovelies! I promised you all a shorter piece with Matt and Mello, and here it is--enjoy!_ _But first, a small warning: if you haven't read my longer piece, then you will not be familiar with a couple of OC's that will be wandering through the flashbacks (which are, once again, provided by the skillful, too-good-to-be-writing-on-my-fanfic. Just Funning)_. _It shouldn't hinder your enjoyment of this piece, though._ _And now a second warning: this is rated M, and contains violence, bloodshed, implied drug use, language, and intense sexual situations--you know, the good stuff. And there might even be a happy ending to it all. So I say again--enjoy!_

_Oh, and yes--I do not own Death Note or any of its characters. I merely use them for my own (sordid) amusement:)_

"Love, Hollow Points, and the Big Easy"

Chapter 1: The Big Easy

_"If you go looking for hot water, don't act shocked if you get burned a little bit"-- opening line from "Catch Hell Blues" by the White Stripes_.

_Matt_

The sidewalks simmered in the late afternoon heat, hot enough to fry a cracked egg. A light breeze blew in every now and then from the great Mississippi, teasing the temples and stroking the skin with its light, cool touch--a touch that was there one moment and then gone again, leaving the city's inhabitants all high, dry and lethargic, like dull, creeping crabs washed up on a hot, humid beach. Pedestrians meandered, slow and thick as sugared molasses, along the sizzling, trash-lined streets, fanning themselves with anything that came to hand--newspapers, pieces of cardboard, fliers that proclaimed: _Come visit Bourbon Street! We're so Jazzed that You're Here!_ The thermometer was making a steady--but sure--crawl into the triple digits, and the bold, white flowers of the majestic magnolia trees were practically melting off their stems, like sweet vanilla-flavored taffy, or subjects in a Salvador Dali painting.

A red 1965 Mustang coupe slid across the intersection of Esplanade and Decatur, its engine revving at a low, seductive purr, its high, shiny paint job as fresh as the painted lips of a French Quarter prostitute, the gleam of its finish like sex on wheels. It cruised, as easy and unhurried as the people on the streets, down the road, passing the French Market, the Bazaar, and eventually the Cafe du Monde with its sweet, heady scent of fresh baked beignets and cafe au lait. The boy inside the car rolled down the window and mindlessly flicked a cigarette out the side, taking in the sights and sounds of the city around him, his tired eyes scanning the crush of determined tourists. It was too, too hot by far, and he was having trouble focusing, the joint, sharp edges of hunger and lack of sleep stealing away his energy and drive, leaving him as limp and loose as a lost rag doll--drooping, like the magnolia flowers, across the hot, sticky interior of the coupe's cherry licorice-colored leather seats.

The blare of an angry car horn snapped Matt back to immediate attention, and he swerved the wheel into a hard left, barely missing a green Camry in the other lane. _Fuck, I need to wake up, _he thought. _And_ _this whole driving on the other side of the road shit is for the birds. _Matt fumbled around on the passenger seat for the pack of Marlboro's he'd thrown there earlier; he grabbed it and stuck another cigarette between his lips, using the (miraculously) working lighter from the dash to light it. _I have to stay focused, _he thought. But focus was hard coming--he was suffering from the jet lag-induced delirium of an eight hour flight, not to mention the seven hour-plus drive he'd made straight from Atlanta to New Orleans. He was pushing himself, and he was starting to feel it, to see it even: he was pretty sure that the waves of heat he saw coming off the concrete were a little wavier, a little blurrier, than they needed to be. What he needed was to stop and rest.

But he could not rest.

Matt reached over to the radio and cranked up the volume, using the moaning wine and screech of electric guitars as a kind of auditory caffeine substitute. A low throbbing bass thumped through his bones, rattled his ribcage. He_ would_ stay awake. The Mustang bumped along the outskirts of the French Quarter and people turned to stare, catching random scraps of the loud music filtering from its open windows:

_I found my heart  
In a pawn shop, baby  
You took me for dead--  
Dead--  
I am way past tales  
I'm bored and I'm crazy  
You took all my good love  
And you gave it all away_

_I've been on the backstreet  
I'm all alone  
I've been on the hotseat  
I'm gone--I'm gone  
Sweet little love of mine  
Take all you can  
I'm your pawn shop lover  
I'm you pawn shop, broken-heart man_

_With all your good looks  
I still have nothing  
Breaking the whip on my back like a man  
I still have nothing  
Take everything you want  
Take all you can  
I'm your pawn shop lover  
I'm your pawn shop, broken-heart man. . ._

Matt turned off onto one of the side streets, gliding right into the very heart of the French Quarter, and found himself confronted with a seemingly never-ending row of stately, picturesque buildings lined with lacy-looking, wrought iron balconies. It was like he had driven into a time warp. Beautiful gated fences lovingly embraced _Gone With the Wind_-esque buildings, some of which had horse-drawn carriages parked out front. Matt blinked and slowed the Mustang to a crawl. The city really was beautiful, in an old-fashioned, run-down kind of way. Decadent. The Big Easy, everyone called it. Mardi Gras central. The birthplace of Jazz.

Yes, Matt could definitely picture Mello here.

Matt had lost track of his quarry shortly after arriving in Atlanta. Or rather, shortly after the headline declaring the death of Atlanta crime boss Herbert Lancaster had hit the papers. _Mello. _Matt wasn't a fool. He might have been naive about Mello's methods in the past, but he'd had time to mature, to grow up, to come to terms with what his former lover was all about--namely, that of cutting a bloody swath through the top ranks of the criminal underworld._ Conquer and devour. _ He'd had more than enough time to study, to learn about Mello's modus operandi--hell, he was a veritable expert on Mello, an authority, probably more so than any operative currently working in MI-5 or even the FBI. Herbert Lancaster had been viciously gun downed at point blank range with hollow point bullets fired from a 9 mm Sword Cutlass--Mello's favored method of dispatch. His signature was unmistakable, as well as the probability of his next mark--which, if Matt understood his quarry as well as he thought he did, would undoubtedly be New Orleans mafia head Augustine Meadows.

Mello might be hunting Augustine Meadows, but Matt was hunting Mello. And he was beginning to catch up.

Matt's own computer hacking skills were more than useful when it came to tracking his prey: he knew most of Mello's aliases, he knew his bank account records, he knew when he had arrived in Atlanta. Mello's first order of business there had been to purchase a Ducati motorcycle from a dealership with a fake ID and bank card. After that--and Lancaster's assassination--he had promptly disappeared from all electronic surveillance. Like a wandering blip on the radar screen, he was there and gone again. Well, he would have to resurface some time. And Matt would be waiting for him. _Like a panther in the dark, black and electric, just waiting to pounce._

But Matt wasn't the panther in this scenario--Mello was. He was dangerous, untamed. Wild and beautiful. Fearless and frightening. It had been how long now? Almost four years since Mello had walked out of Wammy's House's doors, leaving Matt behind, never to look back, never to return. It was four years on, and Matt was behaving like a man completely and utterly obsessed, caught in the delusional grips of a fever, the mercy of an unshakable sickness. For that was what Mello was to Matt: a gilded sickness, a fantasy-fueled obsession. Long ago, at the tender, innocent age of fifteen, Mello had broken his heart, and he had never gotten over it. Oh, he should have gotten over it. He had tried, so, so many times--unsuccessfully--to get over it. He'd taken other lovers in an attempt to erase that beautiful, fierce visage from his mind, but it never worked. Oh, those other lovers had been near perfect on paper: they were tender, they were loving, they were thoughtful. They came at him with their limitless questions, their eternal concern: _ Are you okay? Are you alright? Are you happy? _ And all he wanted to scream back at them was: _shutupshutupshutupshutup! _He didn't want their concern; he didn't _need _their concern. What he _really _needed was--

_--his hair yanked back roughly from his scalp, and Mello arching over him, in him, his hands gripping the headboard for leverage, the wood thonking wantonly against the wall_. _The whole house was going to hear and Matt didn't care, he was crying Mello's name like a catechism--pleading, whining--edging closer, closer--_

Matt pushed his yellow-tinted sunglasses up over his head and rubbed violently at his face--tried to rub both sleep, and that memory, right out of his mind. _Mello. _The tempestuous, leather-wearing blond had ruined him for all other lovers, and Matt should, by all rights, have loathed him for it. For that, and the pain he had caused him when he had up and left without telling him. He should have stopped caring right then and there. Any normal, sane person probably would have. And what was Mello now? A stone-cold killer, a hit man for hire, and any sensible, level-headed person would want to run as far away from that as possible. Mello was undeniably dangerous. Any fool could see that. And yet Matt still wanted him--wanted him with a longing that burned a hole down deep into his soul. Even after all this time, even after all that pain, he wanted that sense of danger, that wildness, that irrational unpredictability--he would never stop wanting it, not until the day he died. For without it, Matt felt hollow inside, like a shadow of his former self, a mere speck. He wanted--he_ needed_--to have Mello back.

And if he had to travel across seas and walk across scores of dead mafia bosses to claim him, _then_ _so be it_. . .

* * *

_"If you really want some hot water, I can help you find it, oh-oh yeah!" --second line from "Catch Hell Blues" by the White Stripes_.

_Mello_

The hotel Villa Convento stood in the middle of the French Quarter, a tall, brick creole townhouse of crumbling, majestic proportions, its wrought iron balconies baking like metal burners on a piping hot stove. This once proud building was also rumored to be the former House of the Rising Sun, one of the most notorious brothels in all of New Orleans. And standing on one of these balconies, its view overlooking the Quarter's sun-drenched rooftops, stood a figure decked out all in black, leather pants clinging stickily in a not unattractive way, one motorcycle boot hooked into the metal runner at his foot, his wary, cat-like eyes scanning the streets below. In the narrow roadway underneath him was a bakery, with a delivery truck backed up to its entrance, and all around that was the scattered, leftover trash from Mardi Gras which had taken place just a few weeks earlier. Everywhere, on the ground, from the limbs of trees--even hanging from his balcony--were beads, beads, beads: their cheap glittery plastic glinting in rainbow hues of green, gold, and violet, winking like grains of glass flung into a dirty sandbox. Mello took his foot and dislodged a strand from the balcony's metal frame, sending the faux gold pearls straight into the gutter below. In the far distance, some Dixieland Jazz played, sending its upbeat, brassy sounds of horns and saxophones floating up to his ears. Mello closed his eyes, listening to the music, feeling the drip of sweat spreading, crawling down the back of his neck. It was hotter than hell, and only about to get hotter--for he had a party to go to that night, and it was one that was going to involve blood, violence, and a whole lot of bullets. So much for Southern hospitality.

Mello glanced back through the open french doors leading into his room to the deceptively innocent-looking guitar case lying on the floor. That case was going to be his V.I.P. ticket to the party happening that evening--namely, a private shindig that was being thrown by Augustine Meadows at his Garden District mansion in honor of his daughter Julia's sweet sixteen birthday. _And how sweet it was gonna be._ He'd paid the bass player of the unfortunately monikered band Stereophonic Fruits--the band that had been booked to cover the gig--five thousand big ones to fuck off for the evening. That, and to conveniently recommend Mello as his last minute replacement. He was going to be showing up with the band, case in hand, making his passage through whatever security was there a complete and total breeze.

That case was packed with enough weaponry and ammo to start his own personal blitzkrieg.

Stashed beneath the oh-so-hip Warwick bass guitar in a hidden compartment were three Berettas, a small .22, a couple of butterfly knives, and several rounds of hollow points. _Nothing too outrageous, _thought Mello, with an audible snicker. Tonight was going to be a piece of cake. Besides slipping in with the band, Mello had also already located and paid off a very lovely--and more than cooperative--escort who went by the fake name of Savannah. A woman who, as luck would have it, 'serviced' Meadows on a regular basis at his wealthy, stately St. Charles Avenue home. She was going to be there at the party tonight, and she was going to make sure, by nine 'o clock sharp, to have Meadows positioned--alone, just the two of them--in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Specifically, the bedroom with a set of windows conveniently leading out onto a roof-top balcony, a balcony with a wrought iron staircase creeping up its side. _ The perfect escape route._ Mello would just have to have his bike hidden away somewhere nearby--and voila--his speedy getaway was ensured. He had this whole bloody thing planned out to a perfect, capital T.

He hadn't been a student of Wammy's House for nothing. . .

Augustine Meadows was going down tonight. And as far as Mello was concerned, the man was small-fry anyway. Mello was burning his way across America, one mafia head at a time. Next stop: Houston, Texas. After that, Las Vegas. And for the finish: Los Angelos. America was going to be his. One stepping stone at a time. Hell, everything, all of it, was just one gigantic stepping stone. Mello really couldn't give a damn about the mafia or anyone in it. What Mello really wanted was Kira.

It was all about getting enough power to take down Kira. That's what it had _always_ been about. That, and beating Near.

Mello's hands involuntarily gripped the balcony rails harder. He felt his teeth clench at the mere thought of his old rival, even though it had been--what?--almost four years since he'd last seen the little bastard. Four years, and Mello was still obsessing over the fact that Near had been Wammy's number one and Mello number two. _Number two. _Well, that would soon change wouldn't it? Mello was edging ever closer to his goal, and he would kill anyone who tried to get in his way. He was going to get to Kira before Near.

And he would show them all what number two could do!  
_  
Bleep! Bloop! Bleep!_

Mello swiveled his head suddenly at an intrusive, electronic sound. On one of the adjoining balconies, about three rooms over, sat a little boy with a handheld game of some sort, mindlessly plugging away at its multi-colored, candy-like buttons_. But it was that sound that yanked Mello right into the past._ Matt! Mello felt his teeth clench again, this time for a different reason. Mello had been in a relationship with Matt on the day he had walked out of Wammy's--without ever telling the other boy he was going--and it was something, to this day, he still regretted doing (even if, in the end, it had been for Matt's own personal good). Not to mention that awful day on a London street corner, that day which was actually _the last day_, the very last time he'd seen the other boy. That day on the street where Matt had unceremoniously dropped back into Mello's unscrupulous life and things had gotten a little . . . ugly. That had not been a good day for him. Not at all. And Mello preferred not to think about it.

But as his kohl-smudged eyes followed the progress of a red '65 Mustang that was cruising down the road underneath his balcony, he found himself unwittingly remembering it. . .

* * *

_London, 4 Years Earlier_

_King's Cross was one of the seedier parts of the city. The air itself seemed tainted, thick and foul, coating the skin with a layer of grime that needed to be washed off. The buildings were sad and in ill repair, and so were the people. Pale and hollow-eyed, shuffling along the sidewalks like zombies in some cheap horror movie--these were the inhabitants of the neighborhood. When one heard about crimes such as rape, muggings, car theft, even murder, nine times out of ten it seemed to be that King's Cross was the location where these acts were perpetrated._

_Not that any of this particularly troubled Mello. This wasn't his first time in this part of London, after all. Back when he'd still been a student at Wammy's House, he'd often sneaked out in the middle of the night, more times than not finding himself in King's Cross, haunting hole-in-the-wall bars and nightclubs. Wild nights of revelry those had been. Today, of course, he was here for an entirely different purpose, striding down the street in the mid-afternoon sunlight next to Puck._

_A drug deal seemed to be going down on the corner, right out in the open. The young pusher, with the face of a teenager and the eyes of an old man, caught Mello staring and sneered his way. Mello in turn sneered right back. It was hard to fear the criminal element when one was a part of it._

_"So," Mello said, easily matching Puck's brisk pace, "we're not actually going to kill these guys, right?"_

_Puck came to an abrupt halt, glancing over at Mello as if the young man were a bizarrely alien insect that needed to be squashed. Then, without saying a word, he grabbed Mello's arm and dragged him into a nearby alleyway. Next to a reeking dumpster, he pushed Mello up against a rough stone wall. Only then did Puck speak._

_"Look, Little Bluffer, I realize this is the first real assignment Zelda has sent you on, and I have to make allowances for your learning curve, but allow me to begin your education here. Rule number one: we do not talk about killing people in public. Do you understand me, boy?"_

_Mello balled his hands into fists and bit down on his bottom lip. He felt the anger churning inside him, threatening to boil over and burn Puck with its scalding spray._

_But no, that wouldn't do. Mello had to keep his temper in check. This was a new world he was in, one with a firm set of rules and a certain hierarchy everyone was expected to adhere to. If Mello forgot that, even for a second, the consequences could be dire. _

_"Yes," Mello said, the word strained through clenched teeth._

_Puck grinned, seeming to enjoy the authority he lorded over the younger man. With his trendy spiked hair, incongruously loud tie-dye shirt, and Lennon glasses, at first glance he didn't seem capable of any real threat, but Mello knew better. "Yes what?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

_If only Near could see me now, Mello thought. Would he be surprised to know that a life of crime is teaching me to control my emotions?_

_"Very good," Puck said, reaching out to pat Mello on the cheek. "Now to answer your question, our instructions are not to kill Chester and his brother but to simply employ a little...persuasion. Now if they prove unresponsive to our powers of persuasion..."_

_Puck let his words trail off, but Mello didn't need him to explain further. With a nod, Mello followed Puck back out onto the street. The dilapidated building where Chester and his idiot brother lived--a thrift store on the ground floor, an apartment above--was only a block away. The apartment was accessible from a rusty metal staircase that ran up the side of the building like some kind of weird exoskeleton. _

_"Mello, is that you?"_

_Mello and Puck, headed for the stairs, both turned at the sound of the voice. A young man with red hair and yellow-tinted glasses stood on the far side of the street, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun's glare. Mello was so stunned to see him there that for a moment he thought it was surely a mirage._

_"Mello, it is you," the redhead said, rushing across the street, heedless of traffic. A few cars had to swerve around him, horns blaring and curses trailing out windows, and then the young man was directly in front of Mello, the two merely staring at one another._

_It took Mello half a minute to finally find his voice. "M-Matt?"_

_Matt smiled wide. "God, Mello, it's been ages. It's so good to see you again."_

_"Uhm, yeah," Mello said, glancing first at Puck then at the apartment where they had business to attend._

_"It was like you just dropped off the face of the planet. I kept expecting you to call or drop me a line. Near tried to tell me you were gone for good, but I waited. I just...waited."_

_Mello winced as if stung. While he held few regrets about leaving Wammy's House, the one thing he did wish had played out differently was the way he'd ended his relationship with Matt. Which had been not to end it at all, not really. He'd simply slunk away without a word, not even so much as a Dear John letter. And the timing couldn't have been worse. After all the time Mello had pursued the aloof redhead, just when Matt had truly started to show some genuine affection for Mello, Mello had up and left. He and Matt hadn't seen each other since._

_"Sorry, I've been...uhm, busy."_

_"Busy, huh?" Matt said, looking at Puck for the first time, and there was venom in his eyes. "Busy doing what?"_

_"You know, working."_

_Matt once again turned his full attention to Mello. "Really? What kind of work are you in?"_

_Mello wasn't sure what to say to that. He couldn't see himself telling Matt about the work he did for Zelda, about the assignment in which he and Puck were currently engaged. The assignment from which Matt was presently distracting them._

_Stepping into the opening in the conversation, Puck addressed Matt. "Sorry, little boy, but we don't really have time to play with you right now."_

_"I don't believe I was speaking to you," Matt said without even looking in Puck's direction, his eyes remaining trained on Mello. "I was talking to my friend here."_

_"Your friend?" Puck laughed. "Well, considering he drop-kicked your ass to the curb and cut off all communications, I'd like to see what you call an enemy."_

_"Mello, can we go somewhere and talk? Maybe grab a drink and just...talk."_

_Mello's mind seem to have shut down, completely ceased all function. It was so surreal seeing Matt here on the streets of King's Cross--and what was he doing in this neighborhood anyway?--after all this time. Old feelings he thought long buried resurfaced, further clouding his thoughts._

_"I said we don't have time to play with you," Puck said again in a strident voice, physically placing himself between Matt and Mello._

_The venom in Matt's stare increased, lashing out at Puck. "Why don't you let Mello speak for himself?"_

_"Because he has nothing to say to you. Do you, Mello?" Then before Mello could even begin to formulate a response, Puck said, "See. You're old news. Now if you'll excuse us, you are keeping us from pressing matters."_

_"And what's so important that Mello can't spare a moment for an old friend?"_

_A greasy smile spread across Puck's face, and Mello didn't know exactly what was coming, but he knew it couldn't be good. Still, he was surprised when Puck put an arm around Matt's shoulders as if about to take the young man into his confidence, turned Matt toward the building they stood in front of, and said, "See that apartment upstairs? Mello and I are about to go up there and fuck like jackrabbits."_

_Matt looked as stunned as Mello felt. In fact, Matt look like he'd just taken a sledgehammer to the crotch. He made some noise, not quite a word, but the inflection suggested it was some sort of question. _

_"That's right, little boy," Puck said, now moving to place an arm around Mello's shoulders, nibbling on the blonde's earlobe before continuing. "He's upgraded since you two were together. You were just practice, and now he's moved on to a real man. I suggest you do the same."_

_For a moment it seemed as if Matt were going to cry, but then anger burned off the unshed tears. "So, is that true, Mello? I thought we had something special, something deep, but was it all a game to you, a fling? You prefer this kind of rough trade now?"_

_Mello could say nothing, just looked on helplessly. Then, remembering that he and Puck had a job to do and time was of the essence, he just steeled his jaw and nodded._

_"I see. Well, my mistake. I should have just kept walking when I saw you over here, but I foolishly thought maybe you still harbored some small feeling for me. I'll know better next time."_

_Then, without another word, Matt stalked off down the street, not even once looking back, disappearing around the next corner._

_"Did you have to be so vicious?" Mello asked when the other boy was gone._

_Puck chuckled, patting Mello on the cheek. "My, my, do we still have a sentimental spot for that boy?"_

_Mello jerked away from Puck's touch._

_"Look, he was preventing us from doing our job, I had to get rid of him. I could sense that playing on his jealousy would be the quickest way to that end. Would you rather he have kept us from our assignment? Would you rather have had to explain that to Zelda?"_

_"No," Mello said with a touch more petulance than he liked._

_"Very good, then. Now let's get upstairs before Chester and his brother die of old age."_

_As they started back toward the stairs, Mello laughed despite himself. "Fuck like jackrabbits, huh? That's quite a fiction you invented there."_

_Puck paused, looked back at Mello, poked out his tongue and winked, then said, "Play your cards right and maybe it can become nonfiction."_

_Before Mello could respond, Puck turned and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and Mello shook off his surprise and followed._

End Chapter 1.

_So, Piper--how do you like New Orleans now? :)_  
_The lyrics are from the song 'Pawne Shoppe Heart' by the Von Bondies.  
Work's going to be kicking my ass over the next few weeks people, so be kind and give me a little love--okay? (Pretty pleaze:)  
Next up: We go to a 'party' in the Garden District. . .  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much to all of you who have reviewed this piece! Positive comments are like the sprinkles on my dark cherry mocha (my new caffeine weapon of choice)--yummy good! So keep 'em coming. . .  
And thanks again to Just Funning, who, once again, contributed the flashback to this chapter. :) _

Chapter 2: Hollow Points

_"I've done the vilest things, the foulest things, but I've done them . . . superbly." -- from the movie 'Henry and June'_

_Mello_

The Garden District in New Orleans was where the money was. Gorgeous mansions costing millions of dollars stood shrouded within verdant, immaculately kept lawns, veritably glowing with the haughtiness of their southern splendor. On St. Charles Avenue, the clunking trolley cars ran to and fro right from the edge of the French Quarter straight into the wealthy district, carting both poor, menial workers and tourists alike. Mello had taken one of these cars back from the district earlier that evening, after handily stashing his bike in the yard of an empty home with a 'For Sale' sign out front near Meadows' own mansion. Time and experience had taught him well, and he knew that good preparation was everything when it came to carrying out the perfect hit.

And he was the master of the perfect hit.

Mello was currently sitting in the back of a smelly, cluttered van, surrounded by instruments, amps, and two other members of the band Stereophonic Fruits. Mello sat on one side of the van, the two other members on the opposite side. They regarded the blond in the tight black leather and eye-liner with suspicious, wary eyes, and they seemed almost afraid of him. That might have had something to do with the _Weapons and Tactics _magazine that he held up in front of his face. Mello peered at the two other boys over the top of the magazine. Then, without warning, he flung the glossy pages down to the floor, causing the long-haired kid in the red beanie cap (in hundred degree weather, no less) to actually jump at the sudden motion. Mello realized that they were well and truly scared of him, and this knowledge only made him smile in a sly, predatory manner--a smile that was definitely not friendly or comforting in any sort of way. The other boys were practically melting, like one of Mello's own prized bars of chocolate, into the van's dirty, metal walls, their backs hard-pressed against its surface in an effort to lean as far away from him as possible. _Fucking pussies, _thought Mello. In the driver's seat up front, the other band member, Mikey, cranked up the stereo to an ear-bleeding volume:

_I could stay a while  
But sooner or later  
I'll break your smile  
And I could tell a joke  
But one of these days  
I'm bound to choke  
And we could share a kiss  
But I feel like I can't  
Go through with this  
And we could build a home  
But I know the right thing for me to do  
Is to leave you alone. . ._

_I'm beginning to like you  
So you probably won't get  
What I'm going to do  
I'm walkin' away from you  
And it probably don't make  
Much sense to you  
But I'm tryin' to save you  
From all of the things  
That I'll probably say or do. . ._

"We're heeeere!" screamed Mikey over the music. The van lurched to a shaky halt behind the sprawling backyard of the Meadows mansion. Without preamble, Mello stood up and flung open the van doors, hopping onto the ground with the silent, agile grace of a black cat. His eyes scanned over the yard's layout. There was a crappy wooden platform that was to serve as the band's stage, and in front of that were several round patio tables covered with prissy white lace tablecloths topped with flickering, amber candles. _Like something on a fucking cruise ship. _ Beyond the group of tables was a lengthy gray-stoned courtyard that had been outlined and strung with a riot of square, multi-colored paper lanterns, the centerpiece of which was a large flowery banner proclaiming _Happy Sweet Sixteen Julia!_ Mello found it all rather depressing. If he was having a sixteenth birthday party, he certainly wouldn't want it to look like this--like something out of Old Folks Weekly. But perhaps that was how the rich preferred their birthday parties. Dignified. Stately. Not fun. Totally fucking boring.

_Well, _thought Mello as he grabbed his case out of the back of the van, _let's see if we can't liven things up a little bit._

_

* * *

_

_Matt_

Matt pulled the Mustang up to the curb and parked it a safe distance away from the looming structure of the Meadows mansion. It was starting to grow dark outside, and the sun was sinking into a bloody red ball, coating the large, wealthy facades of all the houses in the area in its bright orange crush. It was still as hot as a supernova outside and Matt had long since traded his usual long-sleeved, striped shirt for a red, lightweight T bearing the slogan _Gaming is Hardcore!_ He felt like an intruder in such a fancy neighborhood, like there should be alarms going off and police coming to cart him away under suspicion of not having enough gross annual income. Matt watched an old lady laden down with pearls the size of gumballs walking a poodle that had been dandied up in embarrassing pink silk ribbons as she tottered down the street at a snail's pace past his car. He leaned over and yelled out of the passenger side window:

"Excuse me ma'm? Is something going on at that house over there tonight?" The street around the Meadows mansion seemed to be infested with cars.

The old woman paused and slowly turned her arthritic neck toward Matt. She squinted in his general direction, but didn't seem to really see him. "They're throwing a birthday party for the Meadows girl tonight. Didn't you know? It was announced in the lifestyles section of the _Times-Picayune_ last week." She took in Matt's car. "Why? Are you thinking about courtin' Miss Juia or something? I can't say that I approve of that car you're driving, young man. It's a little flashy. You know what they say about boys in fast cars."

Matt just looked confused. "Er. . . no."

The old woman nodded as if this were a sage answer. "Well then, enjoy the party," she said, "Miss Moosie and me here are far too old to stay out that late." With that, she, and her seemingly equally arthritic dog, continued their slow, creeping walk down the street. Matt watched them go.

_A party, _thought Matt. Surely Mello wouldn't try to make his move with that many people around. Why, that would be complete and utter lunacy. Matt, feeling an overwhelming sense of disappointment, restarted the Mustang's engine, and pulled away the curb. No, tonight wasn't the night, obviously. He'd staked out the Meadows mansion in the hopes of finding what? Some sort of sign? A divine revelation? Words painted in airplane smoke across the sky spelling out _Mello is here?_

Matt screeched the car to a sudden halt.

There, parked in the sheltered carport of the empty house next door, stood a black Ducati streetfighter motorcycle. Matt felt his pulse quicken, felt his breath literally catch in his throat. _Divine revelation indeed. _Matt had wanted a sign, and by god--here it was!

Matt threw the Mustang in reverse, reparked, and got out of the car. _Utter lunacy to attempt an assassination with that many people around. _Obviously Matt had forgotten who he was dealing with here. Namely Mello, who had no qualms about starting a bloody shoot-out in a massive gathering of society people. Mello, who felt no fear. Mello, who always favored the dramatic, who always went in for maximum impact. Matt needed to remember that. To remember that was one of the reasons he fell in love with the blond to start with. _Crazy and fearless. _That was Mello all over.

Matt steeled himself and headed down the street. It was time for him to go gatecrash a party. . .

* * *

_Mello_

Mello lounged on the grass with his back against the wooden stage, munching on a quickly melting chocolate bar as the rest of the band scurried around in an attempt to set up their equipment. No one seemed to be paying Mello any attention. Earlier, he had made a beeline for one of the back guest bathrooms--a room which turned out to be almost as big as his old East End London apartment--and had promptly began to load himself up with everything he had in his case. Two Sword Cutlasses in side holsters, one pistol in his back waistband, a knife tucked into each boot, and a second piece stowed in an inside jacket pocket. He noticed that there were several tough-looking but well-dressed men stationed around both the house and the yard that were clearly there to serve as Meadows' "security," but they seemed to be complete, oblivious idiots who could hardly be bothered to spare Mello even a second glance. Their problem was, they didn't know what a _real_ assassin looked like. Or rather, they didn't think to single out the teenager with the long hair, eye-liner, studded collar, and Sex Pistols t-shirt as a possible threat. Well, so be it. They would learn the violent repercussions of their disingenuous assumptions soon enough.

Mello watched through slitted eyes as people dressed in wilting, white linen suits, limp silk dresses, and overly elaborate hats began to file onto the party grounds_. _Waiters in white tails had magically appeared out of nowhere, as if sprung from some unseen Wonderland rabbit hole, to furnish guests with much needed cocktails carried on reflective silver trays. It was just after 8:30 and the party was starting to lurch into full swing (or as much swing as it was going to manage), when Mello promptly stood up and began to make his way over to the back of the house. He moved with a lithe, silent step through the courtyard, walking past the beautiful escort Savannah, who was wearing a revealing white satin dress, and who stood--smiling and laughing--amidst a group of male admirers. She caught Mello's eye as he moved past and winked in collusion. He smiled at her in return. It was almost show-time.

Mello slid open one of the back patio doors and slipped inside, sighing with a slight, unexpected moan of pleasure as the cool breeze from the mansion's air-conditioning system hit him in the face like a wet kiss. It was hot as hell out in the yard, bundled as he was in his leather jacket, but, dammit, he needed it to cover all of his gear! Mello found himself unconsciously drawn to the appealing gust of cold air, following it like a whiff of chocolate, and he moved to stand over one of the vents, allowing the cold to wash over his sweat-soaked brow and wet, sticky hair. He stood like that for several moments, eyes closed to blissful sensation, until another more uncomfortable, prevailing sensation intervened. Namely, he felt himself being _watched._

"What are you doing?"

Mello's eyes snapped open and he turned around to find himself face-to-face with a teenage girl with non-descript brown hair arranged in a bad, frizzy perm wearing a poofy lavender dress. _Julia Meadows. _Mello knew her from the grainy, printed photo that had run in the paper along with the party's announcement from the previous week.

She looked a lot worse than her photo suggested.

The girl was staring at Mello as if he were some invading space alien. She tilted her head, her expression blank, and said, in a grating Scarlet O'Hara twang, "If you're that hot, why don't you take off that jacket?"

"Can't do that, love."

"Why not?" Yet another quizzical tilt.

Mello laughed, the sound both low and mirthless. "Trust me, you're better off not knowing." He moved away then, heading for the staircase, but was perturbed to find the girl following hard on his heels.

"You're not from around here," she said.

"You got that right."

"So what's your name?"

"You don't need to know that."

"Don't you wanna know mine?"

"Well, it's gonna be _'collateral damage'_ if you don't stop following me."

"Huh?"

Mello froze on the third step up and rounded violently on the teenager, getting right into her face. "Stop following me right now, or _so help me god_. . ."

The girl just stood there with her mouth hanging half way open, staring at Mello's face, seemingly oblivious to every word that Mello was saying. Instead, she beamed brightly and proclaimed: "You're really _cute."_

_Oh for fuck's sake, _thought Mello.

* * *

_Matt_

The sky was quickly darkening into the color of an old bruise, and through the black iron bars of the enclosing gate, Matt could see the Meadows' courtyard, its luxurious expanse haloed by the low, hazy glow of numerous paper lanterns, their firefly-like brightness coating the lawn in a fuzzy, rainbow-hued light. Matt watched from his position beyond the gate as people in smart-looking clothes--clothes completely different from the ones that he was wearing--continued to filter, laughing and animated, through the wrought iron entryway, past the security people, and into the back courtyard area and onto the immaculately composed lawn. Over the chattering din of guests came the random twang of guitars and the brassy crash of drum cymbals as the band completed their set-up on the nearby wooden stage. Well--it was now or never. It was time for Matt to make his move.

Matt pushed off from the gate and attempted to enter behind a group of chic-looking ladies in wide-brimmed hats, when he was stopped dead in his tracks by a rough-looking guy in a lightweight summer suit. "And just where do you think you're going, son?" said the man in an icy tone as he halted Matt by his arm.

"I got a delivery," Matt stated flatly.

"Oh--and what kind of delivery would that be?" The man looked Matt up and down critically.

"Party favors for the band," said Matt, pulling a baggie of weed from his back pocket and holding it in front of the man's face.

Sudden realization dawned, and the man nodded, as if Matt's appearance now made complete and perfect sense. It probably didn't hurt that Matt--with his gaming t-shirt, round yellow-tinted sunglasses, and messy red hair--had been born with a look that just screamed: _ Stoner! _

The man jerked his head toward the gate, "Okay, kid--go on through." And Matt's shoulders sagged with an inward, nervous sigh of relief. _Thank Christ that worked, _he thought. He wandered on through the gate and onto the huge back lawn. His eyes scanned through the groups of people as he walked, on the lookout for the gleam of gold locks and the sheen of black leather. But he saw nothing. Matt walked aimlessly, unsure of what to do or how to proceed. _Mello, where are you? _he thought. And then he caught a snippet of conversation from the stage area, one that caused him to veer off in that direction.

"Yo, Mikey--where do you think that Mello dude went?"

"Beats me. I think he might have went up to the house. But it wouldn't hurt my feelings none if he _never_ came back."

"Totally, man--that dude was a complete creep-fest. God, what was Albert thinking, suggesting him?"

"I dunno, he must have been sniffing glue or something. . ."

Matt felt his heartbeat start to pound like a kick-drum at the mere mention of Mello's name. _So close now. _Matt spun on his heel and headed with renewed determination toward the back of the large, sprawling mansion. The place might be huge, but Mello was somewhere in there, and even if it took all night, dammit, he was going to find him.

He had already waited four years.

* * *

_Mello_

"I'm serious, kid--you need to stop following me."

"I don't have to; this is _my _house," the girl replied stubbornly. _Goddamn teenager, _thought Mello, forgetting, for the moment, that he was also one. But he was old beyond his years, mature in a way that just couldn't compare--both Wammy's House and the godforsaken mafia had seen to that. How many people had he killed already? It was sad, but he'd somehow lost count along the way over the course of the last several years. . .

Mello came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the upstairs hallway. Julia Meadows had to be removed from the situation. He couldn't enter that last bedroom and lie in wait for Augustine with the man's annoying daughter dogging his every step. The way he saw it, he had two options: cap her right now, or find a way to immobilize her. The clock was ticking.

Mello rounded on her again, purposefully slipping into her personal space. "Hey, why don't you give me a tour of this place? Starting with your room."

The girl's eyes widened at the sudden invasion, and she stammered, "I don't know--"

"--sure you do. Come on, would you rather hang with me, or those stuffed shirts outside?"

The girl was turning an unflattering shade of red. And Mello was growing impatient. Entertaining aesthetically challenged debutantes had not been on his to-do list for the evening. Why did there always have to be so many complications?

The girl managed a hesitant smile and pointed to a door in the opposite direction from where Mello had been headed. Without hesitation, Mello grabbed her by the arm and tugged her towards it, flinging the door open and all but shoving her inside. "Ow, you're hurting me," she complained.

"Not yet, I'm not."

Mello quietly closed the door and turned and leaned up against it--his pose predatory, his viridian-colored eyes half-mast and calculating. The Meadows girl unconsciously stepped back, sensing danger and instinctively retreating from it. Then Mello moved over to an I-pod stereo dock and clicked it on, cranking up the volume for sufficient coverage. The tiny black speakers vibrated with sound:

_On candy stripe legs  
The spiderman comes  
Softly through the shadow  
Of the evening sun  
Stealin' past the windows  
Of the blissfully dead  
Looking for the victim  
Shivering in bed. . .  
_  
Mello turned and took a single, cautious step in Julia's direction. And the girl, her frame now visibly shaking, retreated back. He stepped forward again. And she stepped back again. A dangerous, predatory tango. "What--what are you doing?" she asked, fear tinging her voice, causing it to go up several, unpleasant octaves.

"Well. . . after this, I'm going to blow your daddy to kingdom come," Mello said casually, with a sly smile. Then, as the back of Julia's legs collided with the side of her pristine, pink-covered bed, Mello lunged forward and caught her with both hands, sealing his mouth over hers in a brutal, bruising kiss. She flailed in the snare of his arms like a fish thrown onto a river bank. Then, without warning, Mello slammed the the back of her head against the wooden headboard of the massive sleigh bed, and the girl slumped down onto the coverlet, out cold. Mello regarded her now-limp body with cold dispassion.

"Hmmm, you'll remember this birthday, at any rate," he said. And then he gripped her under her arms and dragged her over the carpet to an overly large, walk-in closet. . .

* * *

_Matt_

It was like being on a gameshow: pick a door and see what's behind it.

Matt had been snooping through the downstairs portion of the Meadows mansion for the good part of half an hour, and had so far managed to come up empty-handed. He found himself--like some sort of half-assed cat burglar--slinking through an elaborate sitting room, the disapproving eyes of old ancestral portraits following his every move. Creepy. The only people he'd seen so far were various members of the wait-staff, who flew back and forth between the kitchen area and the patio with the swiftness of diving seagulls. Everyone else, it seemed, had gone outside to the party grounds.

Matt came to the bottom of an antique wooden stairway and gazed up. It was time to check the upstairs. His head swiveled left and right, scanning around to see if he was being observed, and seeing no one, he made a mad dash up the thickly carpeted steps as if he were being chased by hunting hounds. He didn't like the feeling of being a trespasser; he just wanted to find Mello and get the hell out.

Of course, he had no real plan for what he was going to do once he found him. There was no well-rehearsed monologue in Matt's head, ready to be recited. And there was no guarantee that Mello would want to see or even talk to Matt, not after all this time. In fact, the more he thought about the whole situation, the crazier it looked from the outside: he had basically jumped an entire continent to follow a guy who had left him with no warning in order to take up with some greasy-haired London scumbag. And that had been almost four years ago. Crazy was the only word that covered it.

Luckily, Matt was perfectly comfortable with that label.

Matt rounded the top of the staircase and was confronted with a long, plushly carpeted hallway that stretched both right and left. There were at least seven more doors here to choose from. But the thing that sealed the choice for him was the muffled sound of music that echoed from behind one--the sound was odd and strangely out of place, and Matt found himself drawn to it, tip-toeing in his scuffed, booted feet towards the electronic sound. He settled outside the door, leaning his ear into the polished wood. He heard nothing except for the music, a song he recognized from long ago:

_Be still, be calm, be quiet now  
My precious boy  
Don't struggle like that  
Or I'll only love you more  
For it's much too late to get away  
Or turn on the light  
The spiderman is having me  
For dinner tonight. . ._

Well, there was nothing for it, except to open the door and check it. And swallowing hard, Matt quietly began to turn the knob, watching as the door slowly--carefully, painfully, silently--eased open, one little inch at a time.

And then, unexpectedly, he felt his arm grabbed and yanked forward with a ruthless violence---

* * *

_Mello_

_--_and Mello had this second intruder caught in a deathgrip, and he locked his arms around the other's throat from behind and_ pressed_, effectively cutting off the windpipe, waiting for the other person to give up, to capitulate.

_Why the fuck do there have to be so many complications? _he thought. The world--hell, fate even--seemed to be determined to come in between him and his mark that night, and it was starting to severely _piss him off!_ The captured young man flailed uselessly under his steely hold. Mello leaned against the wall for leverage as the other struggled uselessly against him, a gurgling, gasping sound issuing pathetically from his mouth, his pleas strangled and almost incoherent. Incoherent, all except for one word, one name:

_"Mihael!"_

In shock, Mello abruptly released his hold, allowing the other to fall face-first and sputtering to the carpet_. _He regarded the back of that head--the unruly bed-head of rusty, red locks--with wide, wild eyes, with pure disbelief. _No, it can't be. . . _he thought.

* * *

_Matt_

Matt was on the floor on his hands and knees, coughing and choking for air. He didn't need to look around to know that he had found his quarry. That bit of unexpected violence, bound up with the twin scents of leather and chocolate, had been enough to clarify it for him. Matt raised his head and looked up at his former lover: he was clad in a black leather jacket and pants, wearing a Sex Pistols t-shirt, a studded dog collar--above his ever-present rosary--and black eye-liner. Absolutely, utterly, scarily beautiful, just like he remembered. And so like the meaning of his true name, the name which had saved his life just now--Mihael, or he 'who is like god.' Well, god had apparently chosen to dress up in something that was like a cross between a rock star and an S&M fetishist, or so that was the vibe that Mello was giving off. Which was just fine with Matt, because he thought it made him look _fuck-all gorgeous_.

"Mello. . ." he finally rasped.

"Matt?" Mello's eyes shone with obvious doubt and shock. "Just what the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Matt replied without hesitation--with complete, uncensored candor.

Emotions sparked across the other's face: doubt, sadness, longing, and finally, anger. "You shouldn't have come here." The words came out in a low, seething growl.

Matt got up from the floor. Mello stepped back from him, placed his back against the door. Moved back as if Matt were now the predator, and he the prey. A revision of roles. And then there was a look, a moment of hesitation. It was small, but just enough. A single, strategic moment of hesitation, of weakness, just big enough to slip through. A moment where Matt could get beyond all that leather armor and--

Matt grabbed Mello by the metal link on his collar and yanked him forward, their lips crashing together in lusty impact. _Now, this, yes! _It seemed that the bridge of years collapsed and fell during the fleeting moment of that kiss, fell with an ungodly, soul-splitting crash. Mello reached up and grabbed him by the hair, turning Matt around until it was Matt's back against the door, and he could feel the electric undercurrent of violence--violence of a different, animalistic sort--emanating from that leather clad frame. It engulfed him like flames, laid him out like a drug. _Now, yes, this! _It had been too long, too rough a denial. Matt sucked at Mello's tongue like it was sugar-coated candy, like it was sustenance. Every synapse firing through his body was clamoring for one thing:_ more!_

Mello abruptly broke the kiss, and staring into his ex-lover's eyes, the assassin said, in a low voice: "You're coming in between me and my mark, Matthew."

And then Mello grabbed him by the shirt collar, and without another word, started to unceremoniously drag him down the hall.

* * *

_Mello_

Mello burst into the last bedroom on the left with Matt in tow. He released Matt's collar and walked over to the windows, and undid all the latches. He opened one and leaned out over the ledge, checking the path from the window, to the balcony, to the wrought iron staircase beyond. Satisfied that the way was clear, he turned back to Matt. From somewhere below, he could hear the band playing, deftly soldiering on without him:

_You're looking down again  
And then you look me over  
We're laying down again  
On a blanket in the clover  
Same boy you've always known  
Well, I guess I haven't grown  
Same boy you've always known  
Same boy you've always known. . ._

_Think of what the past did  
It could have lasted  
So put in your basket  
Hope you know a strong man  
Who can lend you a hand  
Lowering my casket_

_I thought, this is just today  
And soon you'd be returning  
The coldest blue ocean water  
Cannot stop my heart  
And mind from burning  
Everyone who's in the know says  
That's exactly how it goes  
And if there's anything good about me  
I'm the only one who knows. . ._

"So. . . what are we doing here?" asked Matt nervously.

"You and I are going into that bathroom right there_."_

Matt raised a questioning eyebrow at this_._

A familiar, evil grin spread over Mello's face. "Mind out of the gutter, Matt_. _This is work time, not play time." And with that, Mello drew two wicked-looking semi-automatics out of his jacket, and motioned Matt toward the bathroom with the barrel of one. "After you. . ."

Matt swallowed hard. "Uh, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather _not _be around when the shooting starts?"

"Not an option," replied Mello with another sly grin. "Company's coming, you see." And the approaching sound of echoing voices drifted to them from down the hallway, conversation punctuated by the soft, flirty sounds of feminine laughter. Without waiting for Matt's response, Mello grabbed him by the arm and all but shoved him into the adjoining bathroom. . .

* * *

_Matt_

Matt stood frozen behind the closed door of the bathroom_. _He stood silently next to Mello, who had his ear pressed against the door's unblemished, white surface. The bathroom was huge, done up in sparkling black-and-white chessboard tile, its crowning glory an enormous, antique clawfoot tub nestled proudly at its center, its bulk cordoned off by an enclosing oval shower rod and crisp opaque curtain. Matt's eyes ran over all of this briefly before returning to the face of his long lost lover, to the determined curve of his lips--those lips that he had kissed so passionately just moments earlier. It didn't matter to him anymore, the passage of years between them. Neither time, nor distance--all of it was irrelevant. None of it mattered now. Not even Mello's own murderous lifestyle, or the number of lovers he may have taken after Matt. Matt didn't care about any of that anymore. He knew what he wanted, and it was right here in front of him. And all he wanted now was for all of this to be over with so that he could be with Mello and _tell _him.

There was a smirk on Mello's face and a predatory gleam in his eye as he crouched, listening to the conversation taking place in the bedroom beyond. Or what had previously been conversation--the sounds out there had taken on a more decidedly lusty turn, and Mello rolled his eyes as the exclamation of "Oh, Big Daddy!" could be clearly heard filtering through the door. Mello raised his guns again, looking like a cat ready to spring, to make his move. _Like a panther, black and electric, waiting to pounce. . ._

And then the Mario Brothers' theme song started playing loudly inside the bathroom. . .

Matt's mouth fell open in muted horror. Both he and Mello froze instantly at the sound, staring at one another. Matt had forgotten that he had set the alarm on his cellphone to play at top volume, as a guard against him falling asleep at the wheel. And now the music was chiming the hour of nine 'o clock with its merry tune, and outside the door, an enraged shout could be heard:

_ "Just who the fuck is in here?!"_

Mello's expression was livid, and for a moment, Matt felt a genuine rush of fear, actually felt threatened by the other boy. But then Mello swiftly drew another pistol out of his jacket, slapped it into Matt's palm and said: "Here, take this. And _wait_."

And then Matt watched helplessly as Mello mouthed a few words of silent prayer, crossed himself with the barrel of his own gun, and promptly kicked open the bathroom door--

* * *

_Mello_

_--_and emerged right into the middle of a _goddam clusterfuck _of epic proportions. Meadows' own bodyguards had been alerted by the shouting and had also burst into the room, and there were three of them, all with their guns trained directly on Mello. His two guns to their three. He was both outmanned and outgunned. Behind them, Savannah sat sobbing on the bed with her dress half off, and Meadows sat beside her, his expression one of divine fury. One of the bodyguards yelled:

"Drop the shit, son!"

"Not on your life!" said Mello, his jaw clenched and his voice steely.

_Oh-holy-mother-in-heaven-please-get-me-out-of-this-in-one-piece-so-I-can-kick-Matt's-ass-and-break-that-goddam-cell-phone-of-his-up-the-side-of-his-head!_

"Have you lost your mind, kid? Drop the shit! You're outgunned here. Don't make us have to pull the trigger!"

Mello made a cautious step to the right, and the three men stepped with him, as if they were all performing some sort of demented quadrille. The air simmered with the anticipation of violence, of oncoming bloodshed. A second step to the right. And then another. The farther from the bathroom, the better.

"Freeze kid. Don't even think about running for it!"

"Not in a million years. . ." Mello answered through gritted teeth.

The three men were obviously taken aback by that amount of swagger. And Mello knew that it was_ all _about the swagger. His amount of confidence made them hesitate, and with hesitation, came possible openings. . .

"C'mon kid, drop it. What are you waiting for?"

"A sign from God. _ That he has my back_."

"Ha! God's not gonna help--"

The man didn't get to finish his sentence. The top of his head was gone, blown apart by a shot fired from the bathroom. . .

* * *

_Matt_

The moment he heard Mello say those words, _"A sign from God. That he has my back," _Matt knew what he had to do. There was no alternative. He had never so much as fired a gun in his life, but in that moment, he didn't hesitate. _For Mello. _He raised the gun, walked through the bathroom doorway, and fired a shot at the first man he saw. The combination of close range and the hollow point bullets all but obliterated the top of the man's skull, sending chunks of brain and a fine spray of blood flying in all directions.

Everything was a blur after that. Matt saw Mello dive for the floor, saw him fire both of his guns, one shot low, one high. One shot blew apart one man's kneecap--again, the hollow point bullets left nothing but bloody destruction in their wake--and the other was aimed up through the other man's chin. The bullet plowed through the back of his head, creating a bloody Rorschach on the wall behind him. The man with the disintegrated knee fell screaming to the floor, and a second shot from Mello into his left eyeball finished him off.

There was no one left now but Meadows to take out. The man was babbling, scrambling back on the bed. A puddle of urine stained the coverlet beneath him. The escort Savannah was screaming, her white satin dress covered in blood, like that scene in the movie "_Carrie." _The entire room looked like it had been painted by Jackson Pollock, only it wasn't _Autumn Rhythym_, it was more like _Assassin's Rhythm_. Red, red, and more red.

Mello stepped around Matt, and without hesitation, plugged two shots through Meadows' head. Matt stood frozen, shaking.

_He had never hurt anyone in his entire life. . ._

"C'mon, Matt, we gotta go." And then Mello grabbed his arm and steered him towards the window.

* * *

_Mello_

The four men were dead and they were alive. It was a goddam miracle.

But Mello was worried about Matt. He was shaking like someone who had hypothermia, and seemed to be in a state of complete shock. _He's not cut out for this, _thought Mello, as he pushed the other boy across the lawn. Matt wasn't like Mello; Mello had some sort of short in his moral wiring somewhere, something which allowed him to do this kind of work without those niggling feelings of remorse, those feelings of guilt and doubt that most people hearkened to, those feelings which denoted them as _human_. But Matt was different--he still felt things; he understood the basic moral principles of life. He was a passive, sensitive soul, and completely unacquainted with the violent urges that Mello felt, urges which drove Mello to do things that were wrong, wrong, wrong. Matt wasn't like him at all.

Which was why Matt needed to go back to England.

But deep in his heart, Mello didn't want him to go. In some twisted, sociopathic sense, Mello wanted Matt to stay with him. The moment their eyes had met across the middle of Julia Meadows' room, Mello knew what he wanted. He wanted Matt back. He needed his humanity, that light in his eyes which had shone out at him so brightly with such love, such desire, such acceptance. _But would he accept him now, after all of this, after all the things he'd witnessed tonight. After seeing him for the monster that he really and truly was?_ It was all part of the question that Mello wanted to ask him, part of the question that he was _afraid_ to ask him:

_Can you still love the thing that I've become?_

_

* * *

  
_

_London, 2 Years Earlier_

_The warehouse was by the Thames River, one among many such warehouses, abandoned and left to slowly fall apart down by the waterfront. The location was actually prime real estate and could have been developed into a thriving industrial area, but Zelda--or at least the organization for which she worked--had bought up all the warehouses for the express purpose of keeping them empty. It provided people like Zelda with the perfect isolated hideaway to conduct her...private business._

_Mello had worked for her long enough by this time to know all about the type of private business Zelda conducted here, so he was a bit nervous at being summoned to this warehouse by the lady herself. But only a bit. Over the years, Mello knew he had proven himself quite a valuable asset to Zelda. He'd long since graduated to solo assignments, no longer requiring Puck to oversee his work. Although the two did occasionally still see one another socially. One really couldn't call it dating, just a semi-regular fuck._

_They hadn't actually seen one another in nearly a month though. Puck was off on some super secret assignment to which Mello in his current position in the organization wasn't privy. However, Zelda had suggested that career advancement could be near, which had certainly intrigued him. He assumed that meant someone had been lost in the line of duty; that was usually the only way people moved up here. Oddly, in that way the organization was not unlike Wammy's House, encouraging ruthless competition, one person trying to outdo the other for position. It was kind of ironic, really. _

_Mello now stood outside the warehouse with Zelda. She stood rigid, her facial expression cold, her flaming read hair done up in a tight bun that made her face all the more angular in its stark beauty. She was like an ice sculpture, lovely to behold but freezing to the touch._

_"Good of you to come," she said in her husky voice._

_"You call, I come...that's what you pay me for."_

_"Among other things, yes."_

_"So what brings us to Warehouse Row?"_

_Zelda took a deep breath, causing her cleavage to heave. She always wore revealing tops, realizing that what God had endowed her with could distract and confound even the most intelligent and conniving of men. Even Mello often found himself staring. "I suppose you have heard the rumblings that there is a traitor in the fold."_

_Mello hesitated, not sure if he should admit to having heard the rumors or not. Finally he nodded._

_"Turns out it is true," Zelda said, and while her voice remained low, it seethed with rage. "I have discovered that one of my top men is in fact an informant for MI-5. Has been feeding them information, thwarting some of our recent endeavors. I have received instructions from those in charge to have my best man take the turncoat out."_

_"Then why am I here?" Mello asked. "I mean, I'm good, I'm very good, but Puck has always been your right-hand man. And Hector certainly outranks me."_

_"Well, you see, there is a problem there."_

_Mello found himself suddenly grinning; he couldn't help it. "Oh, please tell me you want me to kill Hector. It would be my pleasure."_

_Zelda motioned him toward a large roll-up door, half open. "Come inside. Everything will be clear."_

_Mello followed. The interior of the warehouse was dim, the overcast day providing only scant light through the dirty windows. The place was large, like an indoor football field, and surprisingly empty._

_Except for the chair in the center of the space, the chair to which Puck was tied._

_"What is this?" Mello asked, turning back to Zelda. "A joke?"_

_"No joke. I want you to meet the mole in our midst."_

_"Puck? It can't be Puck. That's just insane."_

_"I give MI-5 credit, they did their job well this time. Puck is the last person most would suspect, which of course made him the first person I suspected."_

_"But are you sure?"_

_"Positive. The evidence against him is incontrovertible."_

_Mello studied Zelda's face. She had been close with Puck, at least as close as she was to anyone in the organization, but her expression evinced no reaction. Just a perfect blank. As if she felt nothing._

_And what exactly was Mello feeling? Betrayed? Angry? Heartbroken? Well, certainly not the last. Though he and Puck had been lovers on and off for two years, their arrangement couldn't exactly be called a relationship. They never shared anything personal--Mello didn't even know where Puck was from originally. They simply indulged their bodies' passions with one another, scratched an itch. Mostly the revelation of Puck's duplicity left Mello shocked, and a bit irritated with himself for not having picked up on it._

_"So what now?" Mello said. "Are we going to interrogate him?"_

_"That has already been done. The next step is elimination." And then Zelda pulled out a gun, a 9 mm Sword Cutlass, and held it out toward Mello._

_He stared at the gun for a few seconds then turned his eyes to Puck. The young man struggled against his bonds, but to no avail. He tried to talk but duct tape covered his mouth, and all that resulted was a garbled mumbling. He was sweating, his left eye blackened and his nostrils caked with blood. His hair, normally gelled to spikey perfection, was flat and greasy. He still wore his glasses, although the left lens was cracked._

_"Why was I chosen for this?" Mello asked, but he took the gun without hesitation._

_"It's no secret that you and Puck have been...intimate for some time."_

_"I don't know if I'd go that far."_

_"In any case, I thought you may want to be the one to do the honors."_

_"So it's an honor, is it?"_

_Zelda pursed her lips and squinted her eyes, an expression of disapproval that had been known to send men to the knees. "If you're not up to it--"_

_"I didn't say that." Mello stepped closer to Puck, who began bucking like mad, causing the chair to clatter and scuff against the floor. His face had turned crimson, and his throat bulged as he tried to scream past his gag. Mello thought of all the hot, sweaty hours they had spent in bed. And in the backseats of cars. And under the stars. Even once in the restroom at St. James park. While there hadn't been much in the way of romance or tenderness between them, Mello had always thought there was at least honesty. But as it turned out, there wasn't even that. "And you're sure?" he said again, looking over his shoulder at Zelda._

_She nodded. "If you'd like a moment alone to say your goodbyes..."_

_"That won't be necessary," Mello said, raised the gun, and fired twice. Two shots, one in the chest and one in the head. For an instant, as he pulled the trigger the first time, he'd imagined perhaps this was the face of Kira._

_"Very good," Zelda said, stepping up next to Mello. There seemed to be a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as she looked at Puck's body slumped in the chair, the ropes the only thing holding it in place. "You handled that with commendable dispassion and resolve."_

_"Thanks. I still can't believe Puck was a traitor."_

_"Oh, he wasn't."_

_At first Mello didn't react to this, as if it took his brain a moment to catch up with what his ears had heard. Then, "What do you mean, he wasn't?"_

_"Hector was the informant. I dispatched him myself an hour ago."_

_"Then what the hell was this?" Mello shouted, gesturing toward Puck with the gun he'd used to kill him._

_Zelda titled her head, seemingly not at all perturbed by Mello's outburst. "It was a test. Of your loyalty, of your willingness to follow orders without question. To see if you would allow emotions to cloud your judgement in the line of duty. It was a test you passed quite handily, I must say."_

_Mello was at a loss for words, floundering. Zelda had manipulated him, tricked him, all as part of some bizarre workplace evaluation. It would have been horrifying if it wasn't exactly the type of thing she'd do._

_"So Puck was innocent?" Mello finally said._

_"Of working with MI-5, yes. However, lately he had been showing a disturbingly cavalier attitude toward authority that displeased certain people. It was decided that his employment should be terminated and a replacement sought with a little more respect."_

_"And that someone, I suppose, is to be me."_

_Zelda stared at him in silence for a moment before answering, her gaze analytical. "The matter is still under discussion, but your performance here today will certainly be taken into consideration."_

_Mello didn't know what to say to that, so he simply said nothing. He tried to return the Cutlass, but Zelda just shook her head. "Keep it. Now let's leave this place. A team will be here soon to clean up the mess."_

_Mello gave Puck's body one final look. He found he felt very little about what had just happened and wondered if that should worry him. Was he becoming as heartless as Zelda herself? True, to defeat Kira he would need to be ruthless, but he still needed to maintain a spark of humanity. Didn't he? Or did he need to become a monster to defeat a monster?_

_Pondering these things, he turned away and followed Zelda out of the warehouse._

End Chapter 2.

_This was the longest chapter ever, and for that, I apologize.  
Songs included here are: "A Martyr for My Love for You" by the White Stripes, "Lullaby" by the Cure, and "Same Boy You've Always Known," also by the White Stripes.  
If you enjoyed this at all, let me hear you holler. . .  
Next up: Chapter 3: Love (in which the author makes up for all the lemonus interruptus written here lately:) _


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks, once again, to all of those who took the time to review this piece. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: "So shines a good deed in a weary world."  
_

Chapter 3: Love (or the Union Forever)

_"For you, a thousand times over." -- from "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini _

_Matt_

He was hurling his guts into the Mississippi River.

The two of them had gotten as far as the outskirts of the Quarter on Mello's bike before Matt had begged him to pull over. He just couldn't hold it in any longer. The combination of the wind, the balmy heat, the bike shaking, and--more importantly--the image of that guy's head being splattered into a million chunky little pieces, had all conspired against him. He was going to throw up, no two ways about it. And he didn't want to be on a moving bike when it happened.

Matt was on his knees on the wharf behind the French Market. Mello waited nearby, straddling his bike, staring off into space. His head turned away, ignoring Matt, as if the whole thing just wasn't happening. _How can he be so cool about it? _thought Matt, as he stood up on wobbly legs and wiped his mouth on the end of his T-shirt. It was almost one hundred degrees out and Mello sat on his bike with a leather jacket on, looking as cool and distant as a runway model, frozen like a beautiful ice sculpture. It had to be a feat of nature. _How can he be that way? _thought Matt. Matt himself was dying inside. And Mello looked completely unaffected.

The image of Mello stepping around Matt to blow Augustine Meadows away replayed over and over in his head, like a CD stuck on skip, like a bad remix. He just couldn't shake it. And yet, it all seemed so natural, like it was something Mello was born to do. _A veritable prodigy of murder. _Didn't Wammy's House have a way of turning those types out--sociopaths with too much intellect, too much free-will, and too little human empathy? Even Near, for all his genius and sense of justice, was strangely cold, so utterly detached from all human emotion. And Near had always accused Mello of being _too_ emotional, accused him of always allowing his feelings to interfere with his sense of judgement, his ability to think clearly and logically. Well, if Near could see Mello now, he might just be frightened by how far his rival had strayed into the other direction.

Matt climbed back on the bike, and without a word, Mello restarted it and cut down Ursulines Avenue, heading straight into the Quarter. He pulled up before a large brick townhouse, the facade of which was decked out with several of those lovely wrought iron balconies that everyone in New Orleans seemed so fond of. He and Matt climbed off the bike. Matt watched with dull, nausea-filled eyes as Mello pulled a key from his pocket. He then went up and unlocked the courtyard gate, and walked the bike inside, away from the prying eyes of the street. Matt followed behind him helplessly like a stray dog. "Mello, can we talk?" asked Matt, his voice coming out shaky and a lot more weaker-sounding than he would have liked.

"Not out here," Mello said flatly. He then grabbed Matt's elbow and pulled him through a green, paint-flaked doorway which lead into the lobby. "Stay on this side of me," he commanded, and he walked Matt like a unruly five-year-old to the elevator. Mello merely nodded at the attendant behind the glass but said nothing. They waited in punctuated silence until the elevator door slid open, and the two of them entered the old-timey elevator car, the inside of which was both claustrophobically tiny and padded with a brown paisley covering, like a an old, antique settee. Or the inside lining of a coffin.

_A coffin. _Matt felt himself growing queasy again.

The antique bell chimed sun-bright and Matt all but fell out of the elevator, happy to be away from its constricting space. Color began to seep back into his face, like a bead of ink being dropped onto a watered page. Mello was still all business-like and gravely silent, as he pulled out another key and clicked open the door to his room. He gestured Matt in. "After you. . ."

"Shouldn't we. . . I don't know. . . leave town or something? Won't they come looking for us?"

Mello shrugged in weary nonchalance. "Let them." A quirk of his lips, an evil _"if they try, they'll die"_ smile. Matt felt no fear.

And what did that say about Matt?

Matt found himself inside a small but ornate room with exposed brick walls dominated by a huge four-poster bed hung with white, billowy curtains. Beyond that a pair of french doors stood open, revealing the furnishings of an outside balcony and farther beyond that, a gorgeous, star-lit view of the French Quarter. But Matt wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at Mello. The moment the young assassin had stepped inside the room, he had started divesting himself of all his outer clothing and weaponry, shedding them like an old snake skin: leather jacket, holster with guns, another gun, a set of knives, even his boots. He dropped them all to the floor, piece by loud, clunky piece, leaving them behind like some sort of grotesque Hansel and Gretel trail which lead into the bathroom. Moments later he came back out again, in just his pants and T-shirt, holding a wet cloth in one hand. "Sit," he commanded Matt. And Matt sat on the edge of the four-poster.

"What are you doing?" asked Matt nervously.

His mouth fell open as Mello roughly grabbed his chin and started soaking down his face. He watched in growing horror as, with each gentle swipe of the cloth, the material came away redder and redder. He couldn't stop looking at it. "Oh, damn." Nausea again.

"Don't look at it." Mello said.

"Can't help it." Oh god--was that a chunk of brain? Was Mello seriously picking bits of brain out of his hair? _Oh god, oh god! _He was going to vomit again. . .

"Don't you dare throw up on me." hissed Mello, grabbing Matt by the chin again. Matt stared with increasingly blurry vision into the other boy's beautiful, kohl-rimmed eyes. Their two gazes locked and held. Then, without warning, without permission, Matt leaned forward and slid both arms around Mello's waist, burying his face into his midrift, his shoulders shaking. He closed his eyes and waited. A couple of heartbeats passed, and then Matt felt Mello's arms around him, holding him up, stilling his shoulders with their strong, confident weight. Matt exhaled violently into the soft cotton material of Mello's T-shirt.

"I just wanted to help you," Matt whispered dejectedly.

"You did help me," came Mello's voice from above. "You're just . . . it's. . . you're just not cut out for this."

"It's just first time jitters," Matt insisted stubbornly, leaning his head back to look up at Mello. "And what did you feel? The first time?"

_The first time that you killed someone. . ._

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Matt's gaze scrutinized Mello's face, searching for some sign, some inkling of emotion.

_His cold, beautiful face._

"Nothing." Mello repeated.

Matt said nothing after that. Instead, he reached up and pulled Mello down to him, meeting his lips in a soft, almost tender, kiss. _What do you really feel? _But being that it was Mello, the tenderness didn't stay for long, and the kiss quickly grew into something more heated, a conflagration that was doomed to burn out of control. Fire caught and spread, and suddenly Mello was on him, his legs straddling him as he pushed Matt back down onto the bed. Not content to remain passive, Matt reached up and grabbed both of his hands, hands that were stained with pinkish-red blood from Matt's face, and Matt twisted him around until he had Mello backed against the headboard. He then kissed him furiously, their tongues twining, lapping, their hands grasping, battling for dominance. Matt's hands skirted hungrily over black leather and thin cotton, groping, searching. Mello had his bottom lip between his teeth, biting, sucking like he never wanted to let go. And then there was an audible, metallic click, and both of them froze, and Mello's eyes widened as he realized what Matt had done.

"Matthew?" There was a warning tone in that questioning voice.

"Yes?"

"What's with the handcuffs?" _Clink. _The metal clanked its own question against the wooden slat of the headboard.

"Insurance."

"For what?" asked Mello with a lascivious grin. "It's not like I'm an unwilling soul here."

"I'm making sure you're not going to up and disappear on me again." _Like you did four years ago._

Mello frowned at this. _Clink. _And Matt just stared back, determined. "Are gonna you try and deny it?" Matt asked him. "That you were planning on slipping out of here at the first opportunity?"

Matt watched Mello's jaw clench in anger. The blond remained silent, and that silence alone told him all that he needed to know. "You were!" spat Matt accusingly. "You were going to leave again!"

Matt watched Mello's face soften. "Matty. I. . . I know I hurt you when I left--"

"--you don't know _shit, _Mello." came the instant retort.

_Clink. _Mello pulled futilely at the metal cuff on his wrist. The two boys glared at each other.

_"Mr. Jeevas--"_

_"Mr. Keehl--"_

Matt took a deep breath and stared at the white coverlet beneath him. And then he began to speak, to recite what was probably the longest speech he had ever made: "Mello, when you left Wammy's without telling me all those years ago, it was absolutely the _worst fucking pain ever. _ No one could understand it. Hell, even_ I _didn't understand it. I was only fifteen-years-old. I should have gotten over you. But I didn't. I didn't understand how much of an effect you had had on me--not until after you were gone and there was just this. . . blank space. And there was nothing that could fill it. No_ one _who could fill it. There was only you. And it was only after you had gone, that I finally understood. . ."

_Take a deep breath. . ._

_And another. . ._

_And just say it. . ._

"That I was really in love with you. I shouldn't have been, but I was. You were an egotistical, selfish, obsessive, cocksucker, after all--"

"--hey! Now wait a goddam minute--"

"--shut up and let me finish!" And Matt took another deep breath. "I was devastated when you left. It pretty much scarred me for life. You ruined me for everyone else--I hope you know that. No one else could measure up. No one was as crazy, or beautiful, or violent, or as headstrong as you. No one. And that's when I realized that I didn't want anyone else. I wanted you. And I still do."

Silence.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"It was for your own good, my leaving--"

"--bullshit! Mello, _bullshit! _Why don't you just admit you were a coward?"

"It's not bullshit! I didn't want you anywhere within a hundred miles of those people! I still don't want you within a hundred miles of them! It's too fucking dangerous!"

"Mello, why are you in America, really? Is it because Near is here, too?"

No answer.

"God, you are really fucking obsessed, do you know that? Why can't you stop? Just stop--"

"--THIS DOES NOT FUCKING STOP! THIS _NEVER_ STOPS! NOT UNTIL I'VE KILLED KIRA AND BEATEN NEAR! THIS WILL NEVER, _EVER _FUCKING STOP!"

The blond had his teeth bared and his face was red. Matt just stared at him. And then Matt lifted a hand to his face, pushed the hair out of his eyes, and said, in a soft voice:

"So let me help you. I'll help you get Kira. Whatever it is you want. I'll help you do it. You want to kill a hundred mafia people? That's fine; I'll help you do that, too. Whatever it is, Mello. I'll follow you. I love you."

_I love you. . ._

* * *

_"There is a way to be good again." -- also from the "Kite Runner" by Kahled Hosseini_

_Mello_

He was going to wear him down with those three little words.

And goddam him for it. It wasn't bullshit, what he had said about leaving Matt behind for his own good. It _was_ for his own good! He didn't want him to have to lead the kind of bullshit life that Mello was leading, where you were constantly on the run all the time and you slept with a gun under your pillow because you were so goddam paranoid that someone was going to try and off you in your sleep. That was no way to live. And Mello didn't want that for Matt. Matt could still be good. Matt could still have a normal life. Matt could--

Who the fuck was he kidding?

No one brought up in the weirdness that was Wammy's House was ever going to have a "normal" life. The place was run like a bizarre psychological experiment, a deranged intellectual gladiatorial ring where everyone competed to be the next L. And no one ever came out of that environment with his psyche intact; it just wasn't possible. Poor Matt was just as fucked up as the rest of them.

But maybe they could be fucked up together.

They were both orphans, after all. They had no one but each other. And the last couple of years had been so horribly, terribly lonely for Mello. Hell, even having Puck around had been _something_. At least with him, there hadn't been the need to explain why he had a rifle with a sight glass on a tripod set up by the hotel window--it had at least been convenient, sleeping with Puck. But Puck was dead now. And Mello had killed him. And there was this cold, creeping fear inside, a fear that both froze the blood and chilled the heart--a fear that whispered to him that if he were to get involved with anyone else, then that person, too, would eventually meet a similar, unfortunate fate. For Mello was chasing after Kira. And Death was chasing after Mello. And the real question was: who was going to be the first to catch up. . .

_I'm feeling mighty lonesome  
Haven't slept a wink  
I walk the floor and watch the door  
And in between I drink  
Black Coffee  
Love's a hand me down brew  
I'll never know a Sunday  
In this weekday room_

_I'm moaning all the morning  
And mourning all the night  
And in between it's nicotine  
And not much heart to fight  
Black Coffee  
Feelin' low as the ground  
It's driving me crazy  
Just waiting for my baby  
To maybe come around  
I'm waiting for my baby  
To maybe come around. . ._

The lovelorn voice of Ella Fitzgerald wafted in, smoky and low, through the open balcony doors. The sound of horse hooves echoed loudly from the pavement below--the sound both out of time, out of place. Time had somehow ceased to exist, to freeze. And then Mello was suddenly jarred back into the present by the intruding, agonized sound of Matt's voice.

"Say something! Answer me!"

Mello just stared at the redhead, stared at his love-filled, imploring eyes. So perfect. _I want to give you everything, _he thought. _I really do. I'm just afraid of what 'everything' entails. Of what it might mean. . ._

_That it might mean death._

_Clink! _Mello pulled at the cuff on his wrist, forgetting it was there. He looked at the metal links with annoyance. Then he said:

"Why don't you unlock this thing?"

"Why don't you answer me?"

The two of them glared at each other over the space of four feet. Then Matt calmly took the key to the handcuffs from his pocket and held it up in front of Mello's face--

--and then promptly pitched it over his shoulder to the other side of the room.

"Jackass!"

"Hey, takes one to know one."

"Go home, Matty."

"Now is that what you _really_ want?"

Mello hesitated. _Hell no, it's not what I really want, _he thought. And for once he just said exactly what was on his mind:

"Hell no, it's not what I really want!"

* * *

_Matt_

It wasn't "I love you." But after four years, it was enough.

Matt reached out and grabbed the metal link on the collar that Mello was still wearing. He pulled him forward, his tongue darting out to moisten the other boy's lips, licking around the outside, teasing the blond's mouth with kitten-soft strokes. Mello used his free hand to grab the back of Matt's head, and in response, he all but smashed their mouths together. _Yes, now, this! _Even shackled, Matt could still feel the sense of danger--of wanton, heady violence--coming off the blond. It leaked like perspiration from his very pores. Their salty tongues met and twined, snaked together in a shimmying, serpentine dance. Matt ran short, hard nails up the inside of Mello's leather-clad thighs and he felt the other tense, felt his breath hitch. The metal cuff clanked violently against the headboard, beating out a rhythm of frustration. _All mine, _he thought. _My personal, willing slave. _Then Matt leaned back and smiled.

"Come here." commanded Mello breathlessly, his eyes glazed over with growing lust, his free hand stretched out to grasp at the redhead, who was leaning just out of reach.

Now it was Matt's turn to smile evilly. "Make me."

"Matty. . ." The warning tone was back in Mello's voice.

_Clink!_

"Whatcha gonna give me if I do?"

"Oh, I'm gonna give you something, alright." said Mello, a lascivious sheen to his eyes. He arched his hips meaningfully, calling attention to the growing bulge beneath the tight leather. "Just come over here and find out--"

The moment Matt got within reach, Mello snared him like a captive animal, a lusty, throaty growl of triumph escaping his throat. Matt straddled the blond as Mello went to work on molesting him in earnest, the blond pawing beneath his shirt to pinch each of his nipples, causing enough of a pleasure-pain reaction to make his back arch involuntarily, to suck in air through clenched teeth. Those prying, clever fingers were soon replaced by a sucking, wet tongue and Matt yanked his shirt the rest of the way over his head, tossing the garment to the floor. He was practically writhing in Mello's lap, the blond's tongue and fingers working on him in a way that was calculated to drive him completely insane. Matt ground his crotch against Mello's, his lengthening hardness pressed against the other's, drawing from him a delicious, animal friction that was nearly--but not quite--intolerable to bear.

Teeth nipped violently at his right nipple, tearing an unexpected gasp from his throat. Matt was feeling hard enough to explode. "Mello?"

"Matt?"

Matt opened his eyes and stared down into Mello's face, that gorgeous fucking face of his that was looking up at him with such want, such need, such desire. "Yes?"

"Sit on my face. . ."

That was best fucking order he'd been given in years.

Matt rolled over and chucked both his pants and underwear off in record time. Mello watched him, still cuffed to the bed, unable to follow. Naked, Matt crawled up the other's body, savoring the forgotten feel of all that black leather against his bare skin. _It was like a freaking dream come true!_ Matt cupped Mello's face in both his hands and kissed him long and deep, a true heart-baring, soul-kiss. Then Mello eased himself back down on the bed and Matt straddled his face, wasting no time in shoving his dick into his perfect, beautiful mouth.

He noticed that red welts were starting to cover Mello's wrist where he'd been unconsciously pulling against the handcuffs, pulled at them futilely even as he sucked Matt off like there was no tomorrow. Matt panted his pleasure above him like an overheated dog. He watched through half-mast eyes as Mello paused long enough to slid two of his own fingers into his mouth, coating them with saliva--with nature's own god-given lubricate--and then he felt the electric shock of ecstasy as the blond reached around and pushed both of his fingers into his ass, causing him to moan out a raspy, guttural gasp of pleasure. "Ah, goddam it!" Matt cried and grabbed hold of the headboard, swooning beneath the heady overload of those two beautiful, obliterating, mind-blowing sensations. "Keep it up, and I'm not gonna last," he said finally.

"Pony up," commanded Mello, nudging him with his knee. The blond's fingers still worked inside him, almost touching, but not quite, hitting their mark and then--

* * *

_Mello_

"--Oh, fuck yes, that is_ gooooood_!" Matt was still straddling Mello, and he appeared to be holding onto the headboard for dear life. He must have hit the right mark, because the redhead was all but fucking his fingers, lost to the oblivion of sensation. Meanwhile, Mello was going insane beneath him.

"Up!" Another meaningful nudge.

Mello removed his fingers and watched as the redhead slid back down his body, his hands trailing roughly over Mello's own erection through his pants, hands which paused to massage, grope, and tease. Mello arched beneath the other's touch, their eyes meeting across the expanse of his torso.

"C'mon Mel--ask me nicely for it," said Matt teasingly, his face all but poised above his crotch.

"Don't you _dare_!" threatened Mello, his voice gone hoarse with barely restrained need.

"Dare what?" asked Matt with feigned innocence. He gave Mello's crotch another tempting squeeze, then pulled back. The expression on Mello's face was murderous.

"Matty, why are you doing this? You know you want it. . ." He let his gaze travel lustily over the redhead's naked body. The other boy still didn't move.

Mello pulled against the handcuffs in frustration. _Clink! _"Matt, come over here." Mello growled through clenched teeth.

Matt's fingers skittered across Mello's leather-clad thighs like a pair of naughty spiders. "Ask nicely."

"Goddam cocktease!"

"That's not nice. . ."

Mello huffed in frustration, rolled his eyes, and recited, like a reluctant schoolboy: "My dear Mr. Jeevas--can you pleeeeeease come up here so I can _fuck the ever-loving shit out of you?"_

Matt burst out in laughter at the delivery. Mello's expression was still murderous. He really was going to start begging in earnest soon if Matt didn't come across with the goods.

"As you wish," said Matt with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. The redhead crawled back up Mello's body, his hands going to work on his belt buckle and fly.

"Jesus, hurry up!"

"Patience," said Matt, who started to peel, inch by tantalizing inch, the stuck, sweaty leather down the other's legs with a suctioning resistance. "Your leather's making things difficult."

"You know you love it."

"Damn right, I do." Matt finally got his pants off and flung them carelessly off to the side. The moment he settled back down on Mello's bare body, the blond was bucking up with need, his hardness seeking the entrance to heaven. Matt ground against him in a sinful, sweaty tango before reaching back to insert the other boy's dick into his ass.

Mello couldn't wait another instant. He pushed up into Matt, heedless of the redhead's discomfort, savoring the mixed expression of pain and ecstasy which flitted, like a delicate pair of doves, across his face. Mello wound his fist around Matt's own throbbing erection, pumping it hard, finding a rhythm to match his own as he thrust upward into Matt with lusty, animal abandon. _It had been too long. _Way too long since the two of them had danced this kind of dance, but the steps came back, like a flash-fire of carnal memory that was never to be lost, never to be forgotten, and they wound themselves fully into its hedonistic pattern, matching each other's pace and pleasure, a dance made up of sure steps and deft strokes.

"I'm getting close," Matt gasped.

Mello thrust even harder, seeking that spot--that angle--that would send the redhead spinning right off into the stratosphere. The friction was overwhelming, and he wasn't going to be able to hold out for long. Mello pulled against the metal cuff--no doubt bruising himself--but the restraints were working some kind of arcane, psychological chicanery on him, one which simply served to heighten everything, to imbue everything with a greater sense of pleasure, of danger. Now he knew why people liked using the things in bed so much. It was frustrating and deliciously tantalizing all in the same instance.

"Push harder," gritted Matt.

Mello did as he commanded, until the other boy was gasping over him like an asthmatic in the midst of an attack. "Yesssss!" And then the redhead threw his head back and froze, muscles clenched straight-jacket tight, as orgasm hit him like an oncoming tsunami. _Beautiful. _It was enough to send Mello over in the next instant, to put a ringing in his ears and a white film over his vision, as he came into the redhead's incredibly tight ass.

_ It really had been too long. . ._

Matt collapsed on top of him, an expression of pure, exhausted bliss on his face. "Oh damn, that was soooooo good."

"Damn near perfect," agreed Mello breathlessly.

Matt looked up at him and smiled, his hand reaching up to cup his face. "I love you," he said, as if he were practicing the words, trying them out in a different kind of context. "However, the answer is no."

Mello quirked up an eyebrow at this last part. And then realization dawned, bringing with it an unhappy frown.

_ "I'm not taking off the cuffs, Mello. . ."_

* * *

_Matt_

Sunlight and birdsong filtered through the open french doors, bringing with them the dawn of a new day. Matt lay nestled within the damp, white sheets of the four poster bed, a cloud of sleep still holding cover in his mind, making it difficult for him to wake up. He stretched, long and languorously, feeling the deliberate, delicious soreness in his muscles, and on the heels of that feeling came the pleasant, vivid memory of the events from the night before. Matt smiled with his eyes closed, remembering--savoring--every single touch, every stroke, every gasp. His hand reached out, groped blindly over to the opposite side of the bed where he encountered--

--_nothing._

The redhead's eyes snapped open. He stared at the empty space next to him, at the pair of handcuffs that lay open and discarded in the spot where Mello had been. A firestorm of emotion came over his face then, dark clouds of disappointment, disbelief, anger, and fury.

"Bastard!" he yelled. He couldn't believe it. The slippery little fucker had gotten out of the cuffs and left him again. Left him. Without telling him.

_Again!_

Matt began to tremble as several conflicting, uncontrollable emotions began to take hold. He could feel the beginnings of tears, could see his own vision start to blur, but he fought valiantly against the oncoming tide. _Goddam you, Mello, _he thought. He should have known that the sneaky blond would pull something like this. He hadn't denied it when he had accused him of wanting to sneak off, and Matt should have taken his silence to heart.

He should have fucking known!

Outside on a nearby balcony, a CD player blasted, sending its lyrics flying through the open door.

_I don't know why you're mean to me  
When I call on the telephone  
And I don't know  
What you mean to me  
But I want to turn you on  
Turn you up  
Figure you out  
I want to take you on_

_These words,  
You will be mine  
These words,  
You will be mine  
All the time_

_You know with love  
Comes strange currencies  
And here is my appeal  
I need a chance, a second chance,  
A third chance, a fourth chance,  
A word, a signal  
A nod, a little breath  
Just to fool myself  
To catch myself  
And make it real  
Real. . ._

_These words,  
You will be mine  
These words,  
You will be mine. . ._

Matt sat on the bed, consumed by misery. And then there was a click, and the bedroom door opened, and in strolled Mello, holding a tray laden with coffee and croissants.

* * *

_ Mello_

"You bastard!" yelled Matt. "What the_ fuck_?"

That was not the reaction he had been expecting to breakfast. Matt's face was red and he looked well and truly enraged. Mello froze in the doorway. "Uh, you don't want this? I can always take it back down."

"Don't play idiot with me," Matt spat accusingly. "I woke up and you were gone!"

Mello froze. Then with slow, deliberate movements--as if he were dealing with a wild, and possibly hostile, animal--he set the tray down on a nearby dresser and moved slowly towards the bed.

"Matty. . ."

"How the fuck did you get out of those cuffs?"

Mello couldn't stop the evil grin from creeping up his face. "You got those handcuffs from a toy store, Matt. There's a safety latch on the side of them."

Matt stared down at the handcuffs in disbelief. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously and he turned back to Mello. "Then why didn't you just get yourself out of them yesterday?"

"And ruin that beautiful moment you had going there? Not in a million years." The smirk was permanently plastered to his face.

"Sneaky bastard!" A pillow hit him in the side of the face, knocking off the annoying smirk.

"Remind me to buy you some adult bondage toys when we get to Houston," said Mello with a meaningful leer.

Matt froze. Mello watched his face change, watched as it went from anger to a different kind of disbelief.

"You said 'we'," Matt pointed out.

"I did. Now try this coffee. That chicory stuff they put in it here is addictive."

_"We."_

"We," repeated Mello.

Matt's expression turned ecstatic. He looked positively gorgeous right then, and Mello had a feeling that he was going to remember this moment, remember it for always.

"Fuck Houston then--let's head straight for Vegas!"

"I have business in Houston," insisted Mello. _Business by the name of Vincent Haggard, Texas mafia head._

"Fuck business," said Matt. "Let's have some _fun_! When was the last time you had fun--"

"--last goddam night."

"I'm not talking about that," said Matt. "C'mon, let's go to Vegas. You can cheat at poker again like you did back in the old days." Matt was looking at him with those irresistible puppy dog eyes.

_Goddam him! He's trying to distract me from Kira, _thought Mello.

_And you're going to let him, _said the evil, fun-loving little voice in the back of his head.

Mello caved. "Alright, Vegas it is. So we'll get ready to leave in half an hour."

"A half an hour? Well then, let's not waste it. . ." And Matt gave him a meaningful look and threw back the sheets.

"_Mr. Jeevas. . ."_

_"Mr. Keehl. . ."_

"I love you. . ."

End/Fin.

_Thanks to all of you who took time out to read this piece, and a double thanks to those of you who reviewed! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I will soon be heading off to Charleston for some much needed R&R, where I can hopefully be found swaying somewhere north of Broad_:)  
_The songs in this chapter include Ella Fitzgerald's excellent "Black Coffee," and R.E.M.'s "Strange Currencies." J. Piper helped think up the band name 'Stereophonic Fruits,' and this is his honorable mention:) I would also like to thank Just Funning for his writing contributions and editing skills, and I would also like to thank both UP2L8 and J. Piper (Maestro) for the constant feedback and encouragement. It means a lot, and I want you guys to know that!  
So until next time. . ._


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